Fighting Chance
by Glitterdune
Summary: Shield slash fic! Dean Ambrose challenges Seth Rollins to a friendly wrestling match. Seth should really know better than to accept. Warnings: eventual m/m slash, dubcon, choking, smut and themes of abuse. Oh, and some talk of crossdressing. Rated M for Moxley.
1. Levity

_Authors note:_

_I don't own the rights to anything in this piece of fan fiction –not the characters, their names or their personas. This story is a pure flight of fantasy and isn't supposed to be based on real situations or actual events! In later chapters there will be male on male slash and lots of porn – possible themes of dubious consent or powerplay. If this is likely to offend you, trigger you or squick you out then it's best not to read on. However! If it sounds like your bag, please stay and enjoy the ride. I haven't written fanfiction for a long time and this is my first Shield piece. I really appreciate feedback as well as constructive criticism!_

Levity

It starts innocently enough. It starts as a dare.

It is a hot day, early August and the air is tipped gold by the sun, spilling thickly down from the high windows and sluggish about them in the small training room as the three of them warm down. Roman Reigns is by the window, in full sunlight as he stretches out his quads, his hair sweat-drenched and falling over his eyes. His brow is furrowed, almost frowning – it has long been his custom to take these stretching sessions seriously; retreating into a still, silent place within himself like a man at prayer. This is something that's beginning to change, though, since he joined the Shield. He'd always considered himself something of a lone wolf but despite himself he;s fast becoming something else – part of a team, part of a pack - a social creature. These days he is easily led away from himself, coaxed out of his silences – a quip from Dean, a look, a grin from Seth and he's distracted, charmed, can't help but join in – he shakes his head to himself. The three are close friends now, and sometimes it is hard to remember a time when he was apart from them.

And close beside him Dean Ambrose is sitting in the ring, his legs dangling lazily as he leans forwards into the ropes, a bottle of water hanging from his fingertips. He doesn't bother wearing his usual shield getup for training sessions, opting instead for a plain black vest top and shorts, but his skin gleams with sweat regardless. He is in a good mood. A somewhat dangerous mood, perhaps, energy and boredom edged with the merest hint of that cruelty that he always carries with him - and he will begin to talk soon.

Seth knows this without having to look at him directly; knows many of his moods although the man is not easy to predict by any means. He senses from something (the slope of his shoulders, is it? Or the way he tears the label from the water bottle?) _feels, _rather than knows that Dean is in one of his playful moods. A dangerous thing. When Dean plays it's always to win. Usually at someone's expense. Sometimes he likes to mouth off about the venue - mocking the equipment or the location, imitating the staff – pushing, _pushing_ until he gets a laugh, a rise, a reaction. Sometimes he breaks things (_equipment, windows, people -)_

More often he likes to spar with Roman – an easy partner to engage, these days - loves to interrupt his reveries and draw him out to the surface. Pokes and prods and pushes until Roman loses it and grabs for him, laughing, and they scuffle until Dean is firmly locked in a submission hold and happily yelling expletives at him.

There is a lot of roughhousing between the two; something that Seth finds himself a little jealous of. More reticent by nature, he finds himself embarrassed by the spontaneity sometimes - finds himself a little apart, wishing himself invited. He playfights with Roman, sometimes, who is boisterous and enthusiastic enough to coax him into it despite himself, his laughing buffoonery infectious.

Never with Ambrose, though – _never_ - Ambrose, who seems to sense his hesitation and mirrors it right back at him, both of them uneasily skirting the very edges of a skirmish. He won't rough-house with Seth. Prefers to play different games. Headgames. Likes to hide his stuff, mess with his iPod and then play total deadpan, just sit back and watch him getting wound up. Or teases him into senseless, pointless conversations with no clear direction, interrupts him mid-answer to change the subject, watch him struggle to keep up, to make sense of the topic. More often then not, Seth can't keep up with these games - can make no sense of them - has to give up, baffled, laughing. They are not, he thinks, particularly fair games - not games that can be won.

Seth eyes him mistrustfully. It's not that he dislikes bantering with Dean; he even finds it kind of flattering to be paid such attention, to have his irritation so revelled in – but with Ambrose you can never tell what thoughts shadow him, or what form they will take. Those pale grey eyes are on him now, filled with some quality of light that shifts constantly, dark clouds fleeting across a full moon. When Seth locks eye contact they narrow slightly – deciding. Some darker cloud crosses them and does not shift away.

Seth glares - pretends to hurl his shoe at him in the hopes of getting a reaction. But Dean doesn't flinch. He leans forward, putting more of his weight on the ropes and he bares his teeth into a smile.

"Hey, I've got an idea. You wanna place a bet, Seth? I've got a bet for you."

"Oh man – Seth, don't even encourage him," Roman says without looking up, although there's a smile in his voice.

"Maybe," Seth says, warily. "What's the bet?"

"I bet I could take you." Dean pulls himself up suddenly by the ropes and pushes his damp hair out of his face, eyes gleaming. "I bet if we wrestle, one-on-one, man to man, right here, right now, I bet that I can pin you for a three count."

Roman laughs – "oh jesus,"

and Seth finds himself grinning – he's relieved, although he's not sure what he was afraid of -

"Okay - you want to fight me?"

"Yeah, Seth, that's what I said - I wanna fight you. I wanna wrestle you – Roman can referee and you can get up here in the ring and I'll beat you and win and he can call it. Sounds like fun, huh."

Seth rolls his eyes.

"What's the matter?" Dean taunts, "You don't wanna? You scared?"

"Ohh, you gonna let him talk to you that way Seth?" Roman is in high spirits at the prospect of this challenge and bounds over, pretending to hold Seth back by the arms. "Hold it man, hold it! Don't kill him just yet!"

Seth laughs again as Dean darts about the ring, jabbing at the air with his fists like a boxer. "Well yeah, I'm scared of hurting you. Little scared of making you cry. But hey, I'll take the bet-"

"He takes the bet, ladies and gentlemen!" Roman announces gleefully to the empty seats, and Ambrose throws his water bottle aside, eyes glittering.

"How much do I win when I pin you?" asks Seth, climbing up into the ring and pulling off his T-shirt. "Shall we say... twenty bucks? Fifty?"

"Not money. Money's boring." Dean's eyes rests on him, his gaze cold and flat. Despite this mercurial shift in tone and body language he doesn't _look _bored, quite the opposite in fact, although Seth couldn't say what it is about him that gives this away. His tone is flat, his mouth a distracted and indifferent line but his eyes are _gleaming, _a sharp light, one that perhaps he can't suppress.

"Boring – that's boring, don't you think, Reigns? Don't you think money makes this all a little predicatable?"

"Oh, I definitely think it could be more interesting," returns Roman lightly. "How about loser buys lunch for a week?"

"Boring."

"Loser carries our kit for a week?"

"Come on. Boring."

"Loser has to seduce Randy Orton," Seth suggests, winking broadly, and Roman bursts out laughing again. Dean is shaking his head, although he's smiling too.

"Warmer... much warmer – but now you're just picking stuff you _wanna _do."

"Ohhh_, _he's got you there Seth." Roman teases, and Seth throws his hands up in protest, mock-disbelieving. "What about – loser has to sneak into the Diva's changing room?"

"- and bring something back as proof," adds Seth, warming to the theme. "Clothing - something sexy!"

"Kaitlins panties!" Roman says, grinning. "Or - how about just Kaitlin?"

Ambrose paces the ring as they laugh.

"Gentlemen, gentlemen, please, this is turning out to be one of the worst bets I've ever participated in. I'm not gonna fight Seth for a prize that bores me, it's gotta be interesting, it's gotta be _worth_ something, if it's not worth something then why am I fighting him? Why would I even do that? Why don't we actually make this interesting, and say that loser has to _dress up_ ...as a diva."

Instant pandemonium.

_(Editor's note: Next chapter coming shortly! Please feel free to follow Glitterdune on Tumblr in the meantime - mostly shield posts and wrestling ramblings.)_


	2. Brevity

Brevity

_The loser has to dress up as a Diva?_

Laughter echoes around the room, making Seth's ears ring. He's probably laughing the loudest, shaking his head and jeering something as he gestures at Ambrose (but Roman shouts over him, and Ambrose is laughing over that and nothing can be made out at all but he remembers them being happy, very happy at that moment)

"It's good, Dean - I mean it's fucking crazy, but you definitely made it interesting," says Roman, when some semblance of order returns to the room and he can make himself heard again. "And for what it's worth? I think you'd look ravishing in a negligee, or a -"

He breaks off, struggling to control himself for a second–

"_camisole_"- he manages to choke out, before dissolving into helpless laughter.

"Coming from you, that really means a lot, Roman," returns Ambrose, mock-graciously. "But let's be honest, Seth is halfway to being a diva anyway. All you gotta do is put a couple of bows in his hair, and... I mean that's all you _need_ to do, you're pretty much set. I don't really see what else you could add to make him _more_ feminine -"

"Ok," Seth shoots back, "ok, well, we'll see who has bows in their hair when I'm done beating you!"

"Uh - will I even need to provide you with frilly panties? Or can you just bring your own?"

"Well I dunno, your mom left some at mine last week – "

"Oh, my mom's buying your clothing now? Well that explains a _lot._"

"Ladies, ladies," Reigns cuts in, laughing, "Let's speed this along."

He assumes the posture of a ring announcer, raises an invisible microphone with a flourish and announces:

"The following contest is scheduled forrrr _one_ fall! And now! Already standing in the ring like an idiot, all the way from bumfuck Ohio, ("hey - fuck _you_-") weighing in at 225 pounds! Dean, Ambrose!"

Dean bows theatrically to the empty room. Seth boos and heckles -

"Aaand his opponent, making his way to the ring from godforsaken middle-of-nowheresville Iowa ("Whaat, c'mon!"), and weighing in at – let's admit it – a _meagre_ 219 pounds – that's 3 bags of oats, folks – Seth... ROLLins!" He rings the bell with relish when Seth enters the ring and then stands back from the scene, watching.

At first they circle each other, neither of them wanting to make the first move. Ambrose looks kind of serious, suddenly, kind of pissed off - his mouth twisted into a smile that doesn't match the look in his eyes in the slightest.

Seth disregards this (and he shouldn't - it's a significant misjudgement and looking back later he wonders if there were others signs like this, ones that were _telling _him, ones he refused to read along the way -) but he disregards this, and grinning fiercely he lunges first and goes in for a headlock, wrapping his arms around Dean's neck and pulling him in hard. Roman whoops on the sidelines, shouting encouragement. Seth's hoping to transition to a suplex, but Dean winds him first with a punch to the stomach followed by a flurry of blows to his chest that force him to let go and stagger back.

They grapple for a moment before Seth gets the upper hand again, grabbing Dean in a wrist lock and twisting his hand sharply. He can't help but grin again – he's doing well. From this position he could go for a DDT, and after _that –_ he wonders how best to attempt a pin and he's about to quip that Dean'll wrestle better in heels when Ambrose swings back and punches him in the face. Hard.

Well, shit. Someone's clearly not fucking about.

He stumbles backwards, steps on that _damn _water bottle and falls down straight onto his ass. His jaw aches as he scoots backwards, hoping to slip out of the ring and try a fresh approach, but Ambrose is on him immediately, shoving him roughly back down into the mat.

Seth feels adrenaline spike through his body, his breathing rapid and his heart suddenly racing as he struggles to keep Dean from getting a firm grip on him. He tries to bring his elbow up for leverage but finds instead that he is manhandled, grabbed and shoved and forced until his arms are trapped underneath him and he can't get away. Ambrose's face is close but unreadable, feral, eyes _blazing_ _-_

and Seth realises suddenly (with not a little surprise) that he is afraid. And this is something new; a response he would not have guessed at or chosen but true enough it is – he is frightened of that wildness in Ambrose's eyes, afraid of what he glimpses stirring darkly just beneath that – an emotion he cannot place – some frightening thought, some hidden purpose. (And for a second, yes, he wonders if the man means to kill him, if _that_ is the fire that blazes at him, the one that burns with no flame and hides behind no smoke –)

_But that is ridiculous_, he thinks faintly as Ambrose's fingers close around at his throat, pressing his head back into the mat, _ridiculous, isn't it? -_

"Not gonna count," calls Reigns, sounding entertained. Oblivious. "Ambrose! Choking's against the rules! C'mon, lay off!"

Ambrose doesn't even seem to hear him. Does not "lay off", at any rate. The grey of his eyes is a seam that runs deep and meaningless, and Seth shudders beneath the scrutiny of that gaze (skin prickling) twists his hips up with a growl, intending to buck him off and kick him away.

But Ambrose's knee shifts between his legs. Seth hesitates - stills. He's suddenly aware of its presence, and of the threat it poses - he wonders if Ambrose would stop at kneeing him in the balls if that's what it took to win.

"B_elow the belt, you crazy motherfucker,"_ is what he'd say, if Dean didn't have such a firm hold of his throat. If he's not careful it will end like this – his shoulders are against the mat, after all, although the chokehold makes this pin technically unkosher – and so he squirms beneath Ambrose, more carefully this time, trying to work his arms free.

"No, no, don't do that -" murmurs Dean, and leans in so close that Seth can make out every dark fleck in those cloud-run eyes. "Don't struggle, quit struggling - " His tone suggests he's enjoying this; a glimpse of teeth although he isn't smiling. And that heat in his eyes, such an incongruous _heat _beneath that sleet grey, the colour of melted ice floes and it suggests – suggests – what, exactly? Seth is lost at sea. As with so many of Ambrose's games, he is struggling to keep up with this one.

Two things happen, then, in quick succession.

The first is that Ambrose moves the knee from between his legs. Shifts it up so that it digs into Seth's stomach while the whole length of his leg presses down firmly against Seth's dick.

The second is that Seth realises (with a white-hot pang of mortification) that he is hard. Undeniably, obviously hard, and getting even harder under the weight and the heat of that leg and _when, when the fuck did that happen, and for how long? _It must have been the adrenaline – or the pain – or the - _oh, god_, and Dean must be able to feel – fuck, he _must_ be able to feel –

The intensity of this moment eclipses all else for a few heartbeats – it rolls in and floods everything, everything away in a great dark wave of (shame, is it? Panic? Or fear, maybe) – his heart hammering in his mouth, face burning hot – _and it could happen to anyone, and we can still laugh it off, and I have to get away -_

But Ambrose cannot be eclipsed – does not move, does not stop moving – and his eyes are rapturous as he _stares_, watching his every expression, devouring every thought. He's smiling that fucked up twisted smile of his, all-knowing, all-seeing, his gaze dark and predatory.

"What's this? Huh?" he breathes, too quiet for Roman to hear, and grinds his knee down. Seth squeezes his eyes shut, mind racing.

"Come on Seth!" That's Roman's voice although it is indistinct, as though it's coming to him from a great distance – "Kick out! Do something, man!"

It is a relief, at least, that he isn't picking up on Seth's predicament.

_Just count_, he thinks desperately, _count the pin, fuck the rules, fuck the consequences, I'll do the stupid dare, just call this a pin and we can end it and be done with it and never talk about it again -_

"Count it!" He starts to say, but at the first sound Dean's hand tightens around his throat and squeezes warningly, just hard enough to choke off any sound.

"Did you wanna say something?" Dean asks, sarcastically, "or should I?" He grinds down again, meaningfully, and Seth can't help but _whine _at the unexpected lurch of pleasure it sends through him - can't stop the sound from escaping - a high pitched, needy thing.

And Dean hears it, (_feels it, oh god -_) licks his lips and squeezes Seth's throat again in response, but oh, fucking _hard_ this time, hard enough that he can't drag in another breath, can't make a sound, hard enough that his vision blooms white for a second around the edges and his dick _throbs _in his pants and that makes Dean fucking _laugh_, right in his face, his eyes shining, floating in the gloom – and he can't – can't _breathe, _can't_ -_

"Alright, break it up!" calls Roman, sounding impatient, "Dean, let him breath for gods sake. No chokeholds!"

And suddenly Dean rolls right off him and sweet air floods his lungs as he gasps, coughs, turning quickly away from Roman to hide his erection. Fuck. He clears his mind of thoughts as much as he can, forces his body to calm down – and it's easy, terrifyingly easy now that Ambrose isn't – isn't _on _him -

"You alright, Seth?" A note of concern in Roman's voice as Seth massages his throat, wincing.

"Yeah - I'm fine," he lies, flashing him a shaky grin. He's not fine. Fuck, he's trembling - and so flustered, so undone that it seems perfectly appropriate to blame himself. What did he just do? How could he get hard in the ring? How the fuck could he have let that happen - with _Dean_, of all people - and he doesn't dare look up at him. If he calls Seth out about this in front of Roman then he'll die, he'll just fucking die of shame right there in the ring –

But Dean doesn't call him out about it – doesn't say anything at all, in fact, because he's too busy bouncing off the ropes and setting up a jumping elbow drop. He lands, seconds later, the impact of his elbow sending a dull pain across Seth's shoulder blades and slamming him face down into the mat. Roman boos; he's saying something somewhere in the background and Seth doesn't even have time to roll out of it when Dean's on him again, knee digging sharply into the small of his back as his arm is roughly pulled behind his back into a classic submission hold.

And Dean's meant to pull his arm back just a little further, to just touch the threshold of pain acutely enough make him tap out. But he doesn't, he fucking doesn't, he makes a sound low in his throat like a groan and yanks Seth's arm back hard, _hard, _too fucking far back and the pain rolls through him like a tidal wave, flaring white-hot, daggertips bright at his shoulder and tracing lines right down his arm.

And fuck knows why, but in the middle of the pain it's like a tiny light switches on in his head, and he realises with a sudden, jolting clarity that Dean might actually have planned this. Might actually be doing this to him on purpose – might be _enjoying _this – but a further twist to his arm blots out all further thoughts, puts a stop to them quite viciously, and the agony cuts deep and exquisite down to his bones and he thinks he _screams_ (and is this planned, too?) and he knows he taps, frantically, knows that Ambrose lets him go with a sneer.

He hears talking, laughter - his two team members bantering back and forth and then (more distinctly, chaos rolling into order as the pain fades) Roman announcing the winner in his ring announcer voice. And this is a small mercy that he clings to in his confusion – that Roman has noticed nothing amiss. He rubs his arm discreetly – it still hurts like hell but there's no real damage done – he stops abruptly when he realises Dean is watching him.

"-you must wanna see him in a dress pretty bad!" Roman is saying, grinning, and Seth trusts himself to say precisely nothing. The moment of clarity that came to him through the pain is already fading into confusion, and the series of events are muddling in his mind. He needs to go somewhere quiet, wants to think everything over in the correct order and work out what is true and what is not true, what happened and what did not happen. He can't, of course – must talk and joke with Roman, and concede victory to Dean, and in the noise and the laughter he is fast becoming confused about what happened. Only one thing remains clear and sharp in his mind – the memory of his arousal, bound up tight with regret and sharp humiliation and the look in Dean's eyes and those fingers at his throat and his own voice, _keening - _

_As long as he doesn't mention it. We can just pretend it never happened, _Seth thinks, agonised, shooting a nervous glance his way. Ambrose is regarding him with some interest, a slow smile tilting on his face.

"You know, Seth... I couldn't help but notice something..." His eyes sardonic and knowing beneath his eyelashes.

_Oh, god. _In a confusion he grabs the water bottle that Roman is offering him, pretends to struggle with the cap because he must focus on anything, anything but this –

"I couldn't help but notice... that you didn't put up much of a fight. Geeze, it was almost like you _let _me win – tell me truthfully, Rollins - you wanted to dress up as a diva anyway, didn't you?"

Seth is weak with relief – cannot speak – and Roman laughs uproariously:

"He did beat you pretty easily, Seth, I'm sorry, but he beat you _soundly_, man – and now you gotta be a diva! You lookin' forward to it?" He makes a show of preening his long dark hair, smooths out an invisible dress as Ambrose cackles. _Thank you, fuck you, you evil son of a bitch, _thinks Seth, but as they walk together to the car park elevators he works hard to smooth things over – cracking jokes and mirroring Roman's high spirits. He will not meet Ambrose's eyes, and although Dean is distracted, laughing and talking with Roman he's aware that those pale eyes slide back to him often, watching him.

At the car park when the elevator arrives Roman gets in without them, still grinning. "Going up?"

Seth is shaking his head - and registers with quiet dismay that Dean is too. "Guess we're both going down."

Another elevator arrives with a chime – Dean glances at it carelessly. "We'll get this one – see you tomorrow for training. Usual place."

"Yeah, bright and early – don't I know it. See ya Dean - you too Miss Rollins!" says Roman with a wink. The elevator door close on him smiling broadly, and Seth is relieved that he didn't have time to make another joke about him in a skirt. It would be an uncomfortable thing to leave them with in this silence.

He follows Dean mutely into the other elevator. It seems very quiet in there, very small as the doors close. Seth takes a breath in. Lets it out. Closes his eyes and carefully thinks nothing, nothing at all as Dean presses the buttons, and sets the thing in motion.


	3. Gravity

Authors notes:

Whew – finally completed the final chapter! I apologise for the delay but I had to put this one on the creative backburner for a little while as I was getting writers block. I hope you find it worth the wait!

Gravity

Dean takes a stick of gum from his pocket. Unwraps it, slowly. Puts it into his mouth. Tosses the silver wrapper carelessly on the floor. It lies between them, glinting.

"Say," he begins casually, "That's the first time we've properly wrestled each other, isn't it?"

Seth is gazing up at the metal panel above the elevator door, feigning interest in the illuminated numbers there. "Uh – you mean unscripted? Yeah... it was."

"Huh. Yeah, I thought so. I think I would've remembered." Seth checks a shiver as those slate grey eyes slide over him, considering. "Did you like it?"

His stomach lurches (but he is in control, he is control of this still – ) "Did I – what?" he asks, absentmindedly. His eyes are trained evenly onto the blank elevator doors.

But Ambrose just looks at him sidelong, grinning – he can _hear _him grinning and chewing that gum, provocatively loud. He doesn't say anything. Doesn't need to.

Seth laughs nervously: "Did – did I like it? I mean – sure, it was a good match – you kicked my ass but yeah, sure."

Dean contemplates him in silence. To his anguish Seth feels a flush beginning to rise to his face, betraying his embarrassment (and he fears that Dean, seeing all things, must surely see this, too). He is flustered by the ambiguity of the question, and the silence that follows it to fill this small, dim space. And he fears that a confrontation must follow close behind, although (he cannot deny this to himself much longer) he yearns for it, too.

A confrontation is necessary. It would at least resolve some of this confusion, putting a name to the nameless; for it is the uncertainty that troubles him (unable to perceive what Dean perceives; not knowing what is known). And the man is not easily read; is all ambiguity, drawing a veil across the sincere he scorns but approves – mocks but solicits – rejects but _invites_. A dangerous game then, this, but Seth will play it. Cannot help himself.

And he realises in these long, silent seconds that he will take whatever Dean will give him – because whatever it is (and maybe it's anger, or ridicule, or blackmail) it is _closeness, _and he craves this, turns his whole self towards it like a flower to the sun although it is Dean and he knows that in the end he must burn beneath it.

And he is afraid. One ending to this game looms close in his mind above all others: and ending where he loses Dean, loses _everything_, his job and his reputation ruined – a game that ends with a hundred thousand laughing eyes turned upon him. And because of this thought he is gripped with a quiet, dreadful conviction that he is just a few words away from ruining his life. That this course, wrongly navigated, could damage the two of them beyond repair and beyond return.

Nevertheless, he must say something. He must speak before this quietness consumes them The sooner he can explain himself and get it out in the open, the sooner they can laugh about it and move on. He must do _something, _and although he has no idea what he's going to say he knows that anything is better than this insinuating silence.

"Dean... about earlier," he begins, and for the first time since they entered the elevator together he makes eye contact with Dean Ambrose.

This, it turns out, is a bad idea.

Dean slams his hand down on the emergency stop button without even taking his eyes off Seth and the lift shudders violently to a halt between floors. Seth feels something shudder in him, too, a quiet dread as Dean takes hold of him and shoves him hard up against the wall of the elevator.

"About earlier? You wanna talk about earlier with me? Something on your mind? Cus I'm right here, I mean I'm _right _here, Seth, so now'd be a pretty good time to tell me–"

"Shit, Dean – forget it – get off me, man –"

"Quit struggling. Lemme look at you, lemme see... yeah, there _is _something on your mind, isn't there...Something right at the front. No? Too scared to say it?"

And he's fucking with Seth now, grabbing a fistful of his hair and yanking his head around with it, and when Seth struggles he puts his a hand on his face and shoves it to the wall hard, so he can only see Ambrose from the corner of his eye.

"Fuck _off_ –" spits Seth, and Ambrose lets him go, laughing, only to shove him right back against the wall, eyes deadly serious, one hand over his throat this time, yanking on his hair with the other so his head is tilted back in submission. Seth doesn't struggle, this time – he's never seen Dean in this mood before and he's afraid of a wrong step, uncertain of what is happening, unable to read the man at _all. _His heart hammers in his chest.

There are signs here that suggest he's playing (but what game is this? And what rules are these, that allow such closeness and such violence?) But everything else – that fist twisting cruelly in his hair, that sharp, flat quality of light in his eyes – everything else suggests that perhaps he is angry, truly angry. And perhaps this is the beginning of everything breaking –perhaps this is where it all falls apart _and what if he wants me out of The Shield, and the company lets me go – and what if he tells everyone what happened –the media – in all the papers – laughing stock – _

And he must look afraid. It must show in the wildness of his eyes, or in the taut, trembling line of his body – or maybe Dean can just feel his heart throwing itself wildly against his ribcage like a trapped bird, because he loosens his grip a little and does nothing for a time but hold him up against the wall with his body.

And it is steadying; this familiar heat through the soft black fabric of his t–shirt, the scent of his cigarettes and his chewing gum; it is strangely comforting despite the hand at his throat, the threat of the fist entwined in his hair. It is just Dean and Seth, for a moment, it is just the two of them in the corner of the elevator and it is very quiet and very still.

And when Seth's breathing slows a little (from near hyperventilation to quiet, shallow pants) Dean pulls his hand away from his throat, pulls back to look at him. And when Seth doesn't speak immediately he drags a thumb slowly across his lower lip as though to coax him, but Seth is reeling in confusion – cannot speak – and so Dean grabs his face roughly, tilts it upwards.

"_Look at me _–that's right –" Those eyes stutter guiltily up to meet Ambrose's, his pupils blown, gaze dark and shuttered with the most lovely confusion – "What did you wanna say to me, Seth?"

"That I'm – I'm sorry," he manages, perplexed. Ambrose begins to chew his gum again, pleased at this development, looks at him with friendly interest. When Seth falls silent he gives him a little shake:

"You're sorry?"

"Yeah – yes –" and Seth holds his gaze (cannot look away), lost in the grey of those eyes; as deep and turbulent as an ocean storm, as baffling as fog and he is struggling to find meaning in their depths, struggling to keep it together – really struggling, now –

"What are you sorry for, exactly?" murmurs Ambrose, prompting him, and for a second Seth hasn't got the faintest idea what he's talking about. But then a knee is pushing between his legs, seeking – and Seth remembers pretty fucking sharpish then, twists away, gasping, will _not _let it happen again –

"I'm _sorry_! For the, for what happened – back there in the ring, in the – with Roman, when we were –"

"What happened in the ring, Seth?" That mouth pressed close to his ear, breath hot against his skin and a graze of teeth at the curve of his ear –

"_Ohgod – _Dean –" And he raises his hands up between them, palms spread flat on Dean's chest, tries to push him back. Dean smiles slowly, does not move an inch, eyes glittering. "Just – gimmesomespace, _please, _I can't think–"

"Oh c'mon, don't play stupid. We both know what happened." That hand twists sharply in his hair again, and he hisses in pain. "We both know what happened, don't we? _I _know what happened, Seth. And I'm pretty sure _you_ know what happened –"

"I'm _sorry_ –"

"What for? Huh? What _for_, Seth, you want me to hurt you again till you tell me? Cus I will, if that's what you want." Seth flushes deeply at this, dropping eye contact and swiping his tongue anxiously across his lips (and he tells himself as he does so that it is a reflex, an impulse, a nervous habit and he knows to his very core that this is an untruth. It is a provocation. An invitation – he _knows _this, he does it anyway) and Dean's smile is a dangerous thing, hungry and knowing as he shoves in even closer, winds Seth's hair through his fingers and twists, yanking his head back into the wall again.

"_Tell_ me," he breathes.

"I'm sorry I – got – got hard, in the ring–" Heart racing, a dull thudding in his temples as Dean leans in to murmur in his ear:

"What got hard? Tell me."

"My – my dick –"And he's gonna start fucking hyperventilating again if he's not careful because this is it – they are at the tipping point now, putting names to the unnameable and even at this point, so far along into this (_confrontation? game?_) he is not sure of Dean's intentions. He is as tense as a bow–string, shivering between fight and flight – still unsure if this is all just a preamble to getting his ass kicked in a public elevator by a madman.

But Dean just moans, a velvet sound, honey–coated, low and hot in his ear and he drags his cheek languidly against Seth's as he pulls back. The sound of stubble against skin like the slow, hot flare of a match being struck – and Seth cannot fight this, presses forward into the warmth of Dean's body, craving the contact and the danger and the heat and the fear and the –

"Say it, then. Say the whole thing." And there's a roaring in his ears like a tidal wave, there is a panic settling upon him like a swarm of bees but those pale hot eyes are on him and he has to say it –can't _not _say it –

"My –" He stares up at him, panting, pupils ink dark, two pools of shadow as clear as glass. "My dick got hard."

"Yeah, it fucking did," murmurs Dean, and pulls back to stare, intoxicated with the success of this. "Are you hard right now, Seth? Huh? Can you even fucking understand me right now or you too spaced out? Christ, you look like you're coked outta your fuckin skull–"

And Seth still can't believe it's actually going to happen until Dean shoves a hand down between them with a sneer, grinds his palm up against his aching cock through the tight denim of his jeans. And god but he's so hard, so desperate for this and there is nowhere to hide and he shoves forward right into that hot friction, begging with his body for more – and truly, the relief of this moment is almost too much for him to bear.

He has not allowed himself to entertain this possibility (although the thought of it has kept him awake at nights long before this one). He has not dared to believe that Dean would want this from him, that he would ask this of him or that he'd have the nerve to _take _it from him like this – but he does, he is, he _will _– this madman, this contradiction, turning all things to the possible.

And Seth has wanted this for so long, with such intensity and such secrecy that to have it now almost undoes him – he is drowned with it, burnt with it, fleeing with it, dying with it. He is a starved man at a banquet. He has been buried alive and pulled shaking from the earth is asked, now, to dig his own grave. He has had his tongue cut out and is pressed, now, to sing his own song – it is an impossible thing, the very sweetest thing and when Dean leans in and kisses him, hot and possessive he _sobs, _one shuddering, gasping breath in.

Dean laughs and pulls back – Seth's lips burn in his absence, his eyes bright with shock.

"You've been hard since Roman left, haven't you? Been aching for this the second you were alone with me. You think I can't fucking tell, Seth? Think I need to touch you like thisto know you're desperate for it? Like _this_? Huh? I don't _need_ to fucking touch you, Seth, I just _wanna. _Fuck, you've been begging me to do this to you for _months_ now–"

And Seth moans, jerks his hips helplessly into that hot, rough friction and oh it's _mean, _it's _good, _he thinks, panting –

"Jesus fucking Christ," hisses Ambrose, yanking at Seth's belt buckle, his zip, shoving his jeans open, "you're so hot for it, aren't you? Spread your legs – lemme see –"

And Seth obeys, spreads his legs immediately without question or protest. And Dean laughs again, kicks them apart a little more and shoves Seth's jeans and his boxers down his hips to expose Seth's hard, stiff cock, as flushed as the rest of him, the head already slicked wet with precum. He's seriously getting off on this – and maybe Dean's right, maybe he's been aching for this since those elevator doors closed – he whines as Dean grabs his hair and pulls his head back to look closely into his eyes. They are dark with blatant lust now, dazed and eager, equal parts fear and desire and _fuck _if that doesn't turn Ambrose on.

"Touch yourself", he commands, voice a little slurred. "C'mon, grab your dick and jack yourself off for me– aw, fuck and he _does, _you _do, _don't you –" he pushes one hand over Seth's mouth before he can answer, shoves him back against the wall and leans against him, a forearm across his chest. But he's completely distracted, looking down between them breathlessly at Seth's hand on his dick as he jacks himself off desperately, stroking himself from base to tip with rough, quick strokes.

"God, you don't even hesitate, huh, you just do whatever I tell you – y'know, I kinda like that – I _really_ kinda like that – right here in public like a fucking whore –"

And he groans and presses in, radiating heat, drunk with power and pleasure at the success of this –

"Are you shaking? You a little bit scared of this? You don't have to be – c'mon, Seth, I know you like this. I know _I_ like it. And you want to give it to me, don't you, you want me to take it from you – just like this, huh,"

And Seth is nodding feverishly, and he might be crying – or the world has blurred itself once more into chaos and confusion, pierced with sparkling points of light and colour but Ambrose won't stop talking, won't stop _pushing_:

"And this Diva thing? This – this _bet, _that you made with me? And _lost, _Seth, because you were too busy grinding up against me like a whore to actually do any wrestling – I'm gonna have a lot of fun with it. Gonna get you in some sweet lacy fucking panties for me – oh, you crying, sweetheart? Yeah, but you're pretty fucking close, too, I can tell - you gonna come from this? Gonna come all over your hand in a public elevator just thinking about what I'm gonna do to you?" He yanks his hair, hard, leans in to hiss in his ear, viciously –

"Gonna put you in a skirt and bend you over, you little _slut_, shove my dick up that tight little ass of yours and fuck you till you're begging me to let you come. That's what you want, isn't it? That's what you're crying for, isn't it?

"Oh – fuck, Dean _please_"

"C'mon, nice and hard for me – maybe I'll let Roman in on this too, let him watch, you'd fucking love _that, _wouldn't you? Show him exactly who you answer to, huh? Show him just what you'll let me do to you. Fuck, maybe I'll even let him share, whaddya think, think he'd be into that? Think you'd suck his dick if I told you to?"

And Jesus Christ but Seth's coming, eyes screwed shut, hips rolling upwards wantonly as he pulses hot across his fist, moaning shamelessly, one hand clutching desperately at Ambrose and pulling him closer, as close as he can get.

Ambrose groans and leans in, drags his tongue through the teartracks on his face, licking a wet hot trail up Seth's cheek. "Look at the mess you've made," he breathes, so close that his lips brush against Seth's own. And when Seth doesn't protest he leans in again and kisses him. Thoroughly, fondly, cruelly – mouth hot and possessive, tongue slick and demanding. He kisses any remaining sense out of him, kisses the thoughts from his head, kisses him to ruin.

"Are you with me, Seth?" he murmurs against his mouth, and those clever hands are working out of sight, making Seth presentable again, fastening buttons and zippers and buckles, putting him back together.

"_Yeah_," says Seth, and his lips are wet and kiss–bruised, and he doesn't know what fucking day of the week it is or what Dean means, particularly, but "_yeah", _he says. "_I'm with you_," he says, because it is Dean and so it is true and it will be true and it must be true. His heart aches in his chest.

And, well. Whatever it means, it must be true for Dean, too, because he smiles (an unreadable thing) and releases the emergency stop button and the lift begins to move again. It moves slowly downwards once more, resumes its controlled descent, and this time they are falling slowly with it, and they are falling together.

Authors notes:

Well, that ended a lot sweeter then I intended it to! Huh. This story really ran away from me at times, but I like where it's ended up, in the end. Things can't be too dark all the time, I think. I've really enjoyed writing it and exploring these guys personalities and their dynamic. I hope you've enjoyed reading it! Please review if you want to; I really appreciate your comments and feedback and your criticisms, too! I just like to know that people have engaged with my writing on some level – even if they didn't like it all that much. I'm working on a couple of other Shield fics as well as my weird comedy Sheild series so there'll be more from me in the future. Thanks for reading!


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